Romy Durrant

Thursday night phone call


You call from

an empty town square

in Tasmania


describe the clear night sky

—the ‘secret man’ in a crevice

stealing Wi-Fi


All your family pets

have been killed:

hit by cars, you say


Your cat

has a human face

and it weirds you out


I tell you about the neighbour

inviting me into her home

to accept a printer/scanner


At one point you say ‘your house’

then correct yourself and say

‘our house’


I laugh:

you feel close

like you’re not 554 km away

but in your room,

through the wall


Our goodbye

is preceded by

a period of silence

during which I think

you’ve been disconnected


Your voice returns

but you exit suddenly

—time passes

and I resign

to not caring


We text until 3 am


You want to change your life,

stop drinking:


is in your blood


I tell you my dad’s an alcoholic


—picture you

in the blue glow

of the wide screen TV

in the history

of your parents’ old house


I don’t know what you feel

but like when

you are tender


It was nice to hear your voice



Romy Durrant is a 21 year old writer from Melbourne, Australia. She has been published by Shabby Doll House and Electric Cereal. You can find her at @miseryclit and


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